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A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



AN AMERICAN POEM. 



NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY GEO. W. HOLLEY, 

NO. 8 A S T O R HOUSE, 
BROADWAY. 



18 37. 



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A MONTH OF FREEDOM 



Once more I'm free. For many a weary month 
I've borne a galley slave's degrading toil, 
Without the rude companionship, the laugh 
And song of brother slaves, which rob his fate 
Of half its anguish ; and a hermit's gloom 
Without the fond devotion, which by dreams 
Of future bUss and glory can transform 
E'en loneliness itself into a heaven. 

Born with that thirst for fame which teaches us 

To laugh at toil, woo danger as a bride, 

And welcome death itself upon the paths 

Of glory, and yet wedded to a lot 

Whose loathsome toil can give no higher prize 

Than mere existence, and unfits the mind 

For aught beyond its sad ignoble strife. 

Cursed with a taste for pleasure, which e'en from 

This world's illusions could have framed itself 



4 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

A paradise, yet fettered to the dull 
Routine of life which knows no change, and brings 
No joy, save when the labours of the day 
Are closed, to be once more alone, — to feel 
Upon my feverish cheek the damp, chill air 
Of night which sooths but to destroy, — to stand 
Once more beneath the midnight vault of heaven, 
And feel my spirit break at length the chains 
Which bound it to the earth, and soar among 
The bright mysterious worlds above, — not with 
The equal flight of science, but the wild 
And reckless joy with which a bird released 
From thraldom, higher and still higher soars 
Upon its aimless yet exulting course. 

Oh, there are things harder to be endured 

Than the stern tortures and the fearful gloom 

With which the warrior bard of Greece has clothed 

Thy fate, Prometheus ! Thou hadst achieved 

Thine immortality. Thou hadst still warred 

With deities alone, and knewest not 

The base and sordid strife of human things, 

In which the weary spirit loathes alike 

The combat and the combatant. Thy chains 

Were adamantine, and thy tortures such 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

As might appease the vengeance of a god ; 
But yet, oh never, never didst thou know 
The mental agony, the sickening heart 
Of him who strives in vain to burst the bonds 
Which bind him to obscurity, and feels 
That restless energy of thought, which once 
He hoped would raise him o'er th' unthinking crowd, 
Now turned and preying on himself with more 
Than vulture fierceness. But ^tis not to speak 
Of things which have been, and should still be borne 
In silence, that I'm weaving now this wild 
Unpolished verse ; 'tis to express the joy, 
Almost delirious joy, which an escape, 
A brief escape from toil has brought me. Free ! 
Free as the wind which wanders where it lists. 
Free to roam o'er our wondrous land, and free 
To woo the goddess Nature, and to snatch 
The fresh and virgin charms which linger still 
Around her here. Away then with the notes 
Of woe ! My chains are broken, and I leave 
My gloomy dungeon to dart onward in 
The rapid car with speed that mocks the winds, 
And see the frowning cliff and woody dell, 
The laughing village and the fertile plain 
Glide by alike the changes of a dream.—' 
A2 



6 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

To Stem with motion scarce less swift 

Some noble river's chafing stream, and watch 

The varied forms of Nature's loveliness, 

That overlook its mirrored brink. — To climb 

To the lone mountahi-top, or float upon 

The bosom of the crystal lake. — To stand 

Before the rainbow of the cataract, 

To watch its flashing waters, and to hear 

Its ceaseless thunder. — To revel in all 

The charms of Nature, and when sated with 

Her lone companionship, to plunge again 

Into the joyous throng of those who mix 

Not in the sullen strife of interest, 

But hurry onward in the laughing chase 

Of pleasure. A few fleeting weeks, — 

Alas ! how few ! — and yet the hasty gleams 

Of pleasure which shine through the clouds of life 

Are still as weeks to years. In my brief month 

Of freedom let me gather all the joys 

Which others scatter o'er the year ; and when 

The draught is drain'd, sadly and silently 

I'll to my weary dungeon turn again. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

And this is Washington ! This the proud seat 

Of empire for the nation of a day, 

Whose giant childhood now is rivalling 

The full-grown strength of other lands. It is 

An infant city : with its wide-spread bounds 

All sprinkled o'er with trees and villages, 

'Tis a fit emblem of the infant realm 

O'er which it reigns. To one whose soul is wont 

To sicken in the crowded haunts of men, 

This half-built city, — this wide field where still 

Nature and art would seem to struggle both 

For mastery, is fairer than the dense 

And stifling wilderness of walls, from which 

The works of man have quite supplanted those 

Of his Creator ; as the artless grace 

Which lingers still o'er childhood is more fair 

Than manhood's sordid vice. And yet they say 

The charms of youth which seem to linger here 

Are but the harlot's hollow bloom, and vice 

Reigns in its most mature and basest forms ; 

And that corruption stalks abroad, nor wears 

The mask which she had yet been wont to keep 

In this our youthful land. Well ! be it so. 

A least the soul sinks not in sadness here 

Before the noisy crowd, nor does the eye 



8 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Wander in vain for some memorial 

Of the fair country's beauty, nor in vain 

Does the breast heave for the pure air of heaven. 

And this majestic dazzling pile, where they 

At once our servants and our rulers meet 

In council, the elected sages sent 

From all the mighty tribes whose banded strength 

Now grasps the red man's fair inheritance. 

Like the wide realm which hears from its proud halls 

The voice of legislation, it has much 

That pleases not the too fastidious eye, 

And much to rouse the critic's cavillings ; 

Yet noble as a whole, winning respect 

And admiration e'en from those who roam. 

Rather to search for petty faults, than feel 

Beauties which only meet th' expanded view. 

A wilderness of art ! But still to me 

Its costly columns do not seem so grand 

As the rough pillared trunks, through which the eye 

Wanders in nature's haunts ; and the proud arch 

Of these high ceilings is not half so fair 

As nature's green and woodland canopy ; 

And this eternal echo which still rings 

Around like distant music, — it seems not 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

So sweet as the free vocal melody 

Which wakes the echoes of the forest's depths. 

And this wide hall, in which our motley throng 

Of legislators use to hold their loud 

Deliberations ; — where is wont to rise 

The noise of echoing doors and tramping feet, 

Joined with the sound of countless voices mixed 

In argument, or tale, or jest, or laugh, — 

All fitfully surmounted by the tones 

Of some despairing orator, who seems 

Alike Demosthenes when he harangued 

The waves of ocean, speaking but to try 

If he can raise his voice above the wild 

Tumultuous din, rather than with the hope 

Of being heard or heeded ; and e'en this 

Perchance surmounted still by the strained voice 

Of the exhausted master of debate. 

Rising through the mad uproar, like the cry 

Of the shrill sea-bird o'er the ocean storm. 

And all as uselessly : here, where these sounds 

Are wont to join in tumult, striving each 

For mastery, and all confused, and mixed, 

And multiplied again a hundred fold 

By the unceasing echoes, — what a deep 



e 



10 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

And chilling silence reigns ! How my lone voice 

Rings through the wide-extended vacancy ! 

In my glad boyhood, when I thought this world 

Was but the lists in which to wage the strife 

Of glory, and that time, and health, and life 

Itself were worthless save as coin to buy 

Ambition's gewgaws, with what eagerness 

I longed to mingle too in the fierce war 

Of public life ! What high and daring hopes 

I framed of filling some proud destiny 

In the tremendous changes which await 

America ! And this proud hall, — how oft 

It mingled with those dreams ! How oft I seemed 

To stand here, even here where now I stand ; 

And, as it seemed, on every side was spread 

A dazzling sea of faces ; and methought 

That my own voice was ringing cheerily 

Around me, and their eyes were kindling e'en 

As mine were kindled, and the excitement which 

Within me glowed was spreading rapidly 

Its fire, over the lip and cheek and brow 

Of each ; — and how my boyish bosom swelled 

With the proud thought that I could rule them all ! 

Could I have seen then, as I since have done, 

This hall filled with the rulers among whom 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



11 



My fancy placed me, — could I then have heard 

The ceaseless din and tumult, which demand 

A louder voice and firmer strength than oft 

Will be the lot of one, between whose mind 

And body there has been a life-time war, — 

Could I have known that here the highest meed 

Of praise is often won by brutal strength, 

Th' assassin's eye and hand, and savage thirst 

For human blood, — could I have witnessed then 

The sands of dulness, and the rocks 

Of party feeling, over which the waves 

Of Henry's eloquence had rolled in vain, — 

If the same fancy, which before me spread 

The " summer sea of glory," had revealed 

Its "depths and shoals," — it would perchance have 

chilled 
The stern devotion, which had made me swear 
To offer up a youthful heart upon 
Ambition's shrine, and sacrifice to her 
My other loves, and all th' unthinking joys 
Of boyhood : and it would perchance have soothed 
The fierceness of that agony, with which 
In after times I feh the withering hand 
Of sickness slowly riveting the chains 
That were to bind me to obscurity 



12 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Forever. Well have sages said that 'tis 
A hand of mercy which has veiled from us 
The future ; and the best of all it is 
That clouds are thrown around thy lofty heights, 
Ambition ! Who would dare the toilsome steep, 
Could he but know the barren rocks which form 
The summit 1 But I waste my golden hours 
Among the works of men, when I should be 
Alone with Nature. Forward ! forward ! Thanks 
To bright Invention's magic power, which binds 
Our chariot wheels with swifter wings than those 
Of Irak's dove.^ — And if I cannot leave 
The vulture thought, yet in the rapid chase 
She cannot with her piercing talons rend 
My quivering vitals, nor with so much calm 
And deep intenseness drive her bloody beak, 
As when, Prometheus-like, I'm bound in chains 
To the lone rock of sad degrading toil. 



The wide and gently-heaving Chesapeake, 
Mother of Waters !^ Well that Indian name 
Attests the wild and unschooled poesy, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 18 

Which Nature and her glorious works had breathed 
Into the thoughtless savage — gaining nought 
From learning's scroll and asking nought from fame. 
Mother of Waters ! — Calmly spread at length, 
With those huge rivers ranged along thy side, 
Alike the out-stretched whelps of some wild beast, 
All clinging to the parent teats. Yet they 
Drain nought from thee, but ever pour their floods 
Into thy bosom, making thee the pride 
Of e'en our western waters. Times are changed 
Since first that wild adventurer, ihe stern 
And daring Smith, explored almost alone 
This infant ocean. In his fragile bark 
Breasting its storms, and by his skill alone 
Evading yet their wrath, — piercing the haunts 
Of forest kings, and braving their wild hordes 
Of warriors, with that feeble crew inspired 
By his own spirit, and led by the spell 
Of higher thought and daring. Many years, 
And yet few for the changes which they wrought, 
Have passed since from these low and wooded shores 
The startled Indians first beheld that strange 
And lonely sail, slow rising o'er the waves 
Like the first cloud which bodes the coming storm. 
B 



14 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 

There was a deep and all-absorbing love 

Of liberty in that young Englishman ! 

Even from boyhood 'tvi^as his joy to roam 

Through the wild forest, or in some lone glade 

To spend whole days alone, training his frame 

To feats of arms, or poring o'er the page 

Of science. At an age, when other youths 

Are seeking but to learn to wear with grace 

The fetters of society, he left 

His native land for foreign climes, and made 

The ranks of war his home. In the fresh glow 

Of manhood, when others yield to the thrall 

Of pleasure, and upon themselves for life 

Are riveting her weary fetters, he 

Had wandered wild and wide o'er land and sea. 

And made danger his comrade, and had looked 

On death until its terrors all were gone. 

And he could laugh full in the phantom's face. 

He had pierced to the bounds of what was then 

Th' enlightened world, and fought in Christian ranks 

Against the heathens. He had raised himself 

By skill and daring to a noble rank 

In arms, and made him friends of princes. He 

Had fought upon the listed field, before 

The combined beauty and the chivalry 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 15 

Of Christendom and Heathenesse, and won 

A higher meed of praise than e'er success 

Showered upon a warrior's name, unless 

In legends of romance. He had been left 

As dead upon a battle-field, and saved 

To be a captive in the heathen land. 

He had bound in the chains of love, the fair 

And noble Eastern lady, who held him 

In thraldom as a suitor's gift. Again 

Fortune had sunk him to tlie lowest depths 

Of bondage, chained and doomed to menial toil. 

He had slain his oppressor, and escaped 

Once more to Christian lands. Now wandering 

Through lonely forests, and now revelling 

With princes, he through Europe's realms had held 

His way, to seek new dangers and new fields 

Of glory in the wilds of Africa. 

Having drained to the dregs each varied draught 

Of danger and excitement, — having lived 

In his brief youth far more of life than oft 

Has been crowded into the longest age 

Of other men, — back to his native land 

He roamed once more. He came not as he went, 

A friendless boy ; he came in the full flush 



16 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Of manly beauty, trumpeted by fame, 

And armed with passports to the hearts of all. 

The men panted to offer up their share 

Of praise to one whose friendship had been prized 

By Europe's noblest sons. The women all 

Were dying to behold and love the man, 

Whose wild adventures mocked the strangest tales 

Of chivalry ; and who to beauty's power 

Added a name whose glory Europe scarce 

Could bound, and the still more romantic charm 

Of those wild loves in the far heathen land. 

The jealous portals of society 

To him were opened wide. He roamed at will 

Through its enchanted palaces, and 'twas 

To find that they were but the haunts of fiends, 

The demons of satiety and care. 

For a brief space he bowed to fashion's thrall, 

And 'twas to learn that even gilded chains 

Are galling still. Free as the desert steed. 

Or the wild sea-bird, he had roamed o'er land 

And ocean. Could he bear the dull sad round 

Of fashion's pleasures ? He had played the game, 

The thrilling game of battle, where the stake 

Was life, the prize was glory. Could he join 

The petty strife and childish rivalry 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Of fashion's minions ? He had won the heart 

Of that fair Eastern girl, who loved him for 

Himself alone, and sought to give him wealth, 

And rank, and liberty, and in return 

Had asked no boon but love. And could he care 

To win the heartless smile of the cold belle 

Of polished life, who offers up her love 

Upon ambition's shrine, and only seeks 

To add another and a nobler slave 

To her proud train of suitors ? From the smiles 

Of rank and power, and the blandishments 

Of beauty, he in sadness turned away, 

And sought Virginia's dark and lonely woods. 

'Tis true that there danger and death beset 

His path. But what were these to one who left 

Behind the anguish of satiety? 

'Tis true that there hunger, and toil, and wounds, 

And harsh captivity awaited him. 

But what were these to one who had endured 

The tortures of inaction ? What was it 

To him, if in that desert colony 

He must endure all that appalls the soul 

And most exhausts the frame. of common men, 

Crowned with the thanklessness of those for whom 
B2 



17 



18 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

He toiled and fought ? It gave him liberty, 

And wild adventure, and the boundless range 

O'er land and wave, the joy of hostile strife, 

The thrill of danger quickly followed by the glow 

Of proud reliance on the powers which ne'er 

Had failed, the hand of comrades in the hour 

Of peri], and their joyous jest and laugh 

In times of safety. I can understand 

Full well the restless spirit, which to him 

Had made his snow-swept couch on the cold earth, 

Softer than beds of down ; and the rough food 

Won at long intervals and by the risk 

Of life, far sweeter than the crowded board 

Of luxury ; and the free voice of woods, 

And wind, and waves, more welcome to his ear 

Than aught of music in the haunts of men. 

And I can feel the wild, wild joy, which e'en 

Apart from thoughts of fame, thrilled through his veins 

As he, the first of Europe's sons, in doubt 

And danger held his chartless way across 

This wide " ocean-like water :"^ now, 

Cautiously stealing o'er its treacherous depths, 

Watching each signal of the coming storm ; 

Now clinging to the thickly wooded shore, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 19 

Guarding with watchful eye and arms prepared, 
Against the ambush of the savage foe. 

But times are changed, since that small bark alone 

Specked this broad water. 'Tis the highway now 

For the glad myriads of the growing realm, 

Whose gasping infancy was saved so oft^ 

By that adventurer. The swift steam arks, 

Those moving hostelries, in luxury 

And safety bear us o'er his lonely course. 

Full oft from other points they cross our way, 

Dashing through the vexed billows, sending o'er 

The flood a broken strain of music, lost 

Almost as soon as caught, and as they pass 

Giving a hurried glimpse of happy crowds 

Of faces for an instant seen, and then 

For ever gone. Far and near is spread 

The sail of commerce. Many a stately bark 

Is gliding by, gently and gracefully 

Rising and dipping o'er the summer waves. 

On every side the sails of others swell 

Before the breeze, more and more distant, till 

They dwindle to faint specks, which the strained eye 

Can scarcely catch on the horizon's verge. 



20 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



The mild and softly flowing Delaware ! 

Gliding along as if afraid to mar 

The deep repose with which on every side 

Beauty is sleeping on its tranquil banks. 

They tell me that the weary denizens 

Of wealth have built them here their bowers of ease ; 

And well these fair creations of their hours 

Of freedom show that deep and innate love 

Of nature and of beauty, which had long 

Been stifled in the city's slavery. 

Through the imbowering foliage brightly gleam 

The graceful villas with their fair white walls, 

And pillared porticoes, and clustering flowers, 

And verdant lawns gracefully sweeping down 

To meet the river, edged with trees whose boughs 

Low drooping kiss their image trembling in 

The gentle wave below. In these fair scenes 

Each sad remembrance, and each thought of gloom^ 

And every dark foreboding leaves the soul, 

And like the facile bosom of the stream, 

It takes the hue and semblance of the calm 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

And placid beauty which is spread around ; 

And the vain fancy almost makes us deem 

This gentle loveliness the harbinger 

Of hope and joy. And such thou wast to us, 

Beautiful river ! in the war between 

The right of weakness and the strength of wrong, 

Which ushered us in olden times among 

The nations. When that small and patriot band 

Had found their untrained valour powerless 

Against oppression's mercenary ranks ; 

When each successive battle had but .served, 

To dye the bosom of their native land 

With blood in vain, and cumber it anew 

With her devoted sons ; and backward drove 

A still more shattered remnant, flying still 

O'ermatched and destitute, until at last 

Their bloody foot-prints marked the frozen ground, 

And cold and want struck deeper than their foes ; 

When shrunk the timid from th' unequal strife, 

And e'en the best and bravest whispering spoke 

Of sad submission, and all seemed subdued, 

And dark, and hopeless, save th' unyielding soul 

Of Washington ; — 'twas first upon these banks 

That the disastrous tide of battle turned. 



21 



22 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

'Twas here that feeble, faint, exhuasted band, 

Which scarce had seemed to have the power to drag 

Its wounded length along its blood-stained course, 

Rose as a fiery dragon on its foes, 

And wrested twice from their astonished grasp 

The prize of war, and sent them cowering back 

To gain new strength to cope with their despised 

And prostrate quarry. And in after times, 

When that eventful strife was o'er, and he, 

Whose valour had thus led his country's arms 

To victory, now ruled in wisdom o'er 

Her infant councils, — it was on these shores 

That the fair bands of maids and matrons strewed 

With flowers his way across the fields, o'er which 

He had in times of doubt and peril led 

Their husbands and their fathers ; and 'twas here 

That they invoked those blessings on his head, 

Which still are dearest from our native land, 

And ever sweetest in the gentle voice 

Of beauty. What emotions must that scene, 

The smiles of that fair band, and the sad thoughts 

Of other days have waked witliin a breast 

Like his alive as well to every soft, 

As every lofty feeling of the soul ! 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 23 

The fame of that all-noble being seems 

An ark too sacred to be rashly touched 

By a weak hand like mine. Why speak of Mm 

To those upon whose hearts his memory 

Is stamped for ever, joined with every fond 

And holy feeling, which is wont to rise 

Within the human soul to that one word — 

Our Father? Why essay to swell the praise 

Of one, whose name alone still throws the awe 

Of reverence upon the laughing face 

Of childhood, and spreads o'er the cheek of youth 

The shade of thought, or kindles there the glow 

Of emulation, and calls to the eye 

Of age the tear of fond devotion, drawn 

From the shrunk fountains which have long been dry 

To every other feeling ? Even now 

The flood of deep emotion, which the thought 

Of him has raised within my breast, — the crowd 

Of feelings struggling each for utterance, 

Seems to forbid that I should farther seek 

To twine his name within my idle verse. 

His tale is graven on a far more high 

And lasting tablet than the lying page 

Of poesy. And there it stands, a link 

To bind us to the noble times of old ; 



24 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

A lesson to the sordid selfishness 

Of modern days. In a polluted age, 

He joined the patriot virtue of old Rome, 

With Spartan modesty and courage, ruled 

And tempered all, by the stern self-control 

And wisdom of the sage of ancient Greece. 

In a base, venal age, he staked his wealth, 

And life, and fame upon a desperate cause ; 

And when his daring and his skill alone 

Had won for us the victory which few 

Had hoped, he wrung no treasure from his faint 

And feeble country ; and he turned away 

From the bright meed of dazzling power, which 

A grateful people, and an army bound 

With ties of love, in rivalry had heaped 

Upon him. The delusive meteor whims 

Of fancy all were impotent with him. 

Each faculty and power of his mind 

Bowed in subjection to the sway of thought. 

The childish vanity, — the thirst for praise. 

Which have so often led the great to strive 

Rather to dazzle than to serve mankind ; 

To seek their favour for the present hour. 

Before their lasting interest ; all these 

Were powerless with him. Each hope, and wish, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 25 

And feeling of his soul was sternly ruled 
By his pure love of country. On the rock 
Of self-approval he had made his stand, 
And there the storm of power might burst in vain, 
And all in vain the gentle summer waves 
Of public favour courted him to launch 
Upon their treacherous depths. His country's good ! 
His country's glory ! These were the sole rules 
Of action which he knew. His only end 
Was still to serve his country, e'en against 
Her will, — e'en at the risk of forfeiting 
For a brief time her love. And he chose well. 
And even if, like other conquerors, 
He too had toiled for selfish ends alone, 
And laughed at patriotism as the lure of fools, 
Still he had chosen wisely. In the race 
Of fame, who wins as high a meed of praise 
As his ? What despot's thraldom ever matched 
The tyranny of love, with which he ruled 
A land of willing freemen ? Who through life. 
Or after death, has reached the boundless power. 
With which his name now sways, and yet shall sway 
To latest times the minds of men? The still 
Unchanging watchword in the sacred cause 
Of Liberty, — forbidden, hushed, and feared 
C 



26 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

By tyrants, — loudest sounded still, where men 
Are leagued to free and to exalt their kind. 

Something of him their father we may trace 

In those whose swift-extending numbers spread 

Over the spacious realm, won by his arms 

And founded by his wisdom. Calm, and full 

Of thought. Patient of danger and of toil. 

Stern in their morals, — rather cherishing 

The homely household virtues, than the false, 

The heartless graces of society. 

Proud of their native land — thoughtful and cold 

In all except their love of liberty. 

Slow to aggression, — in resistance quick, 

And calmly reckless of aught else, except 

Submission's infamy. More used to yield 

Obedience to the rule of judgment, than 

The whim of fancy. Quick to feel the power 

Of beauty, and yet rather seeking it 

In fair reaUty, than in the wild 

Chimeras of poetic fantasy. 

What has their land to do with poesy ? 

On every side its bright realities 

Shame the creations of the bards 

Of other climes. And what has it to do 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM- 

With the illusive legends of romance 1 

In its wide regions, which embrace each grade 

Of men and things, from polished elegance 

To savage wildness, may be met at will 

Stranger adventures than were ever coined 

By lying artist. In its sons is found 

As much of high and daring chivalry, 

And in its artless daughters more of grace 

And beauty, than has ever decked the page 

Of sickly fancy. In the aged realms, 

Where time and custom have effaced the charms 

Of Nature's workmanship, it may be well 

That they should ask for beauty from the hand 

Of fiction. What has she to do in lands 

Where all still glows with the bright hues of youth t 

But I have wandered far, beautiful stream ! 
From thy fair banks. And who could tightly hold 
The reins of reason o'er his vagrant thoughts. 
In scenes like this which spreads around me now ; 
Lazily floating in my rocking skiff 
Between these twin and rival villages,'* 
Whose glittering fairness rather serves to aid 
Than mar the charms of Nature, like a gem 
Upon the hand of beauty. W^hat a deep 



27 



28 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

And placid stillness reigns on every side ! 
Plenty and beauty hand in hand now rule 
These shores, once wasted by the steps of war^ 
And commerce pours its treasures undisturbed 
Through the fair stream from which in olden time 
The hand of war had swept her peaceful sails. 
The lounging sailor in that passing bark 
Looks listlessly upon his drooping sail, 
And little recks he of those times of strife 
And danger, which e'en now were gliding o'er 
My memory. That gently sloping bank ! 
How like a picture in its glowing hues 
And deep repose ! How sweetly shaded o'er 
By those wide-spreading trees, save here and there 
The scattered groups of sunshine which have found 
A way through the dense foliage, and rest 
Like sleeping flocks upon the velvet turf. 
Brightly the surface of the river gleams, 
Unruffled all, save where the sturgeon throws 
His glittering length on high, an instant poised 
In air, then plunging headlong down again 
Into the splashing wave. The swift steam-ship 
Now breaks the tranquil stillness of the scene, 
Hurrying on in dazzling grace and pride. 
Dashing the vexed water from its swift wheels» 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



29 



Carelessly breasting current, wind, and tide, 

The beautiful reality — the bright 

Imbodied spirit of that spectre ship,^ 

Which in our country's timid infancy 

Haunted its lonely coasts. O'er its broad track 

Of surging foam, lightly the dun smoke floats, 

Marking its course alike through air and wave. 

The billows parted from its rapid prow 

Have reached our little skiff, which lightly bounds 

Above them, and they onward roll against 

The grassy shore, tossing their crests in air. 

Along that western bank the steam-car holds 

Its still more rapid and more wondrous course. 

Swift winding on the length of its huge train, 

Like some strange monster, — some dread behemoth, 

Whose fearful strength and speed, the art of man 

Has made obedient to his slightest touch, 

As the trained courser to the silken rein. 

On it has hurried in its rushing course, 

Almost before the eye could grasp its form. 

Now its reluctant roar dies on the ear 

Like muttering thunder, and the light cloud left 

By its fiery breath rests in mid air. 



C2 



30 A. MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

" Once more upon the waters." Free once more 

From the foul dens of human things. Once more 

Abroad with Nature. How that mountain breeze 

Freshens the fevered cheek, wasted and wan 

From the foul atmosphere polluted with 

The breath of thousands ! How the lulling voice . 

Of the hoarse dashing waters sooths the ear 

Jarred by the crowded city's brattling din ! 

How the unnumbered smiles that dimpling play* 

Over the water, and the varied charms 

That grace its brink, — the thickly wooded bank, 

The rare imbedded farm won here and there 

From the wild woods by cultivation's hand, 

The fair white villa cresting the dark cliff, 

Those wondrous palisadoes rising there 

In beautiful array, as if to mock 

The proudest works of art, — oh ! how these cheer 

The soul when sick with watching the dull stream 

Of human things to mark in each, the still 

Recurring shades of childish vanity, ^ 

Or leering lust, or foul intemperance. 

The princely Hudson ! winding on through scenes 

Which now awe with the wild sublimity 

Of nature, and now charm us by the soft 

A.nd gentle graces they have won from art. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The noble Hudson ! chaining fast the eye 

With beauty's spell, yet raising in the soul 

Far sterner thoughts and deeper feelings by 

Its proud memorials of other times. 

Many a lofty mount is rising up 

Before us, from whose top in days of old 

The battlements of war frowned sternly down 

Upon the placid river. Dark green woods 

Now overshadow their once naked heights, 

And scarce the eye can trace the mouldering walls 

Of those old fortresses. Yet long their names 

Shall live in history, and kindle still 

The glow of filial love and gratitude 

In those whose fathers once were battling there 

For liberty. But not of war and blood 

Alone does the fair stream speak to the soul. 

Soft thoughts and gentler recollections now 

Crowd on us. Many a name around us sounds 

Which by the voice of genius has been made 

Familiar to the ear ; and many a cliff 

Is gliding by, upon v/hose brow the hand 

Of genius hangs a garland far more bright 

And lasting than the blood-stained laurel wreath 

Of war ; and every village, bay, and vale 

Is brightening up on niem'ry's page his fair 



32 A MONTH OF FREEDOM- 

Creations. Irving ! Our own Irving 1 He, 

Who sought to throw his gentle spirit o'er 

The souls of kindred nations, and essayed 

To quell each harsh and angry thought which sprang 

From ancient strife and modern rivalry, 

And strove to bind us to our mother land 

Once more ; — not with subjection's galling chains, 

But with the lightly worn and silken bonds 

Of kind affection. Our own Irving ! He, 

Who smooths each wrinkle from the face of care, 

And drives away the scowl of hate, the sneer 

Of scorn, and kindles on the lip the smile 

Of sweet benevolence, and from its fount 

Calls up the tear of virtue. He, who throws 

Over the realms of thought, the purple light' 

Of language soft and rich and beautiful, 

As the all-glorious hues which autumn sheds 

On his own land;— a poet in all else, 

Save that he has not bound his free-born thoughts 

In jingling fetters. Our second father ! 

Who in the walks of taste and science won 

To his loved native land a place as high, 

As that which Washington in olden times 

Achieved for us in the proud ranks of war. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 33 

But now that gleaming monument, the stern 

Gray walls of that old fortress, and the cliffs 

Frowning beyond, tell that I've reached the point, 

Where long, long years ago the flood threw off 

The mountain's thraldom. Bright and glorious stream ! 

Thou too hast burst thy bonds asunder ! Thou 

Art flowing on in careless grandeur now 

Growing in strength and dignity, alike 

The land of which thou art the type and pride. 



On the lone mountain top. Around me are 
The mould'ring walls of the decaying fort. 
And I have gazed on the o'erwhelming scenes 
Of grandeur which are spread far, far beneath. 
And I have turned away " dazzled and drunk 
With beauty ;" and I've stood upon its choked 
And moss-grown fountain's brink, and clamber'd down 
To wander through its dark and dripping vaults. 

In the old war for freedom, when the foe 

Poured from the north their best and bravest bands, 

Leagued with the faithless savage horde, and from 



34 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The south concurring ranks back, back, from cliff 

To cliff along th' embattled Hudson drove 

Our fathers, — here they made their latest stand. 

Like eagles in their eyry, girt by rocks 

O'er which the eye grows dim and the brain reels, 

They hurled their fierce defiance on the foe 

And dared his utmost vengeance. And at last, 

When treason wound its foul and poisoned way 

Within their nest, still undismayed they dashed 

The serpent from their bosom, and fought on 

Unconquered to the end. 'Tis a proud spot 

To an American. He in whose soul 

Lingers the love of his own native land, 

Will feel it swell within his bosom here, 

And scarce the pride of manhood keeps it down 

Beneath the fountains of the eye. 'Tis proud 

To stand upon the rock against whose base 

Invasion's waves broke harmlessly. And if 

They had prevailed, — if their united strength 

Had risen high and rolled the flood of war 

And carnage o'er these walls, — it would have been 

A pleasant thing to die for freedom here. 

But he, the traitor, — he, whose step where now 
I stand has wound through the rough soldiery, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 35 

Each one of whom had asked no boon but death 

For him, — he, whose proud voice has rung where all 

Is now so silent, winning to its tones 

The prompt obedience of a soldier's love, — 

Oh ! could he barter this for gold ? Full oft 

In other lands there have been traitors, who 

Were galled by tyrants' chains, and sold their faith 

For liberty. But he alone betrayed 

The cause of freedom. He alone rushed back 

To chains, and sold himself, and sought to sell 

His native land to slavery. But why 

Do I pollute with human infamy 

The page, which should be sacred to the charms 

Of nature ? History has placed her brand 

Upon him, and to us his treachery 

Was harmless. Would it had been so to those 

Who sought to purchase it. That noble youth ! — 

Ah ! would that on his head had not recoiled 

The selfsame treason which he strove to wield 

To our destruction. Would he had not died 

A felon's death, while the true felon lived 

To infamous old age. But he sleeps well 

In his own native isle, and his brief life 

Has won the tears of love, his country's praise, 

A spotless name in history, and sad 



36 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

And fond regrets e'en from his enemies. 

Who would not choose a fate like this, though bought 

By the fierce anguish of his dying pang, — 

Who would not choose his death before a life 

Of baffled treason, conscience-scourged, and galled 

With curses e'en from those, who paid the price 

Of his dear-bought and useless perfidy. 

Here where the foot of foeman never trod, 

And where the flag of freedom never sunk, — 

Here the republic trains its youth to arms, 

And all around us speaks of war. Full oft 

The cannon's startling voice rolls through the hills 

Its mimic thunder, and oft o'er the plain 

Rings the shrill burst of martial music. Far 

Below me now their tents like children's toys 

Glitter upon the green, and they themselves 

Dwindled to pigmies seem in sport to make 

Their graceful evolutions. It was well 

To place them here, — and well they prove themselves 

Worthy a country's care, in the dark walks 

Of art and science, in the dazzling, proud, 

And beautiful array of war, and in 

The soldier's frank and gentle courtesy. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 37 

When Kosciusko, the enthusiast 
Who worshipped at the shrine of Liberty, 
Till she became an idol that absorbed 
Each thought and feeling of his soul, — when he, 
The star of chivalry, who in himself 
United all the noble attributes 
With which romance in fantasy invests 
Her heroes, — when he lingered as a guest 
Within the clime where he had fought to gain 
That freedom, which in after times he strove 
In vain to win for his devoted land, — 
'Twas here he made his home. And beautiful 
And bright as are the forms of loveliness, 
With which Nature has decked this favoured spot. 
Yet every mountain, rock, and shore, and wood. 
Glows with new beauty in the poesy 
Of his remembrance. For his soul was fraught 
With poesy, but it was of the kind 
Which speaks to Earth in deeds and not in words. 
And mingles with mankind to lead them on 
To happiness and glory, and seeks not 
To dream in solitude, and conjure up 
Ideal shapes of beauty, and to hold 
With them ideal converse, eloquent 
Perchance, yet adding little to the sum 
D 



38 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Of human good. They cherish here with pride, 
His sacred memory. On yonder point, 
His monument, reared by the youthful band 
Of soldier students, gleams in sunshine, pure 
And bright as his own name in history. 
They show his garden, too, which he was wont, 
'Tis said, to cultivate with his own hands, 
And in its shades to spend his hours of thought. 
'Tis a wild spot upon the very face 
Of a huge precipice, where a dark cliff 
Receding leaves a little sheltered slope 
Of verdant turf. The black rock rises high 
Above you, naked, save where forest shrubs 
And wild flowers grow along its clefts, nursed there 
By waters dripping from its secret depths. 
Upon the green a sparkling fountain throws 
Its cooling waters in the summer air, 
And showering back into a marble font 
That bears his name, they trickle on to bound 
With gentle murmur down the precipice 
Which plunges headlong to the river's brink. 
'Tis a sweet shaded place, fairer perchance 
From contrast with the fearful scenes around. 
Tis like his brief sojourn in quiet here 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 39 

Contrasted with the strife and gloom, which marked 
The other years of his eventful life. 

But in the savage mountain scenes, through which 

I wander now along the river's brink, 

Is found full many a spot as fair 

As that wild, holy garden ; and the hand 

Of art in kindness leaves still undisturbed 

Their forest graces, — or when it has dared 

To pierce their sacred shades, it still has been 

To heighten, not to mar their charms. 

If the bright, fabled goddess Nature, whose 

Ideal worship has so long inthralled 

My soul, had aught of being or of life 

Save in poetic fantasy, — if she 

Were not a dream and an illusion like 

Aught else that ever brought a joy to me, — - 

'Tis here that I would fix her home. Here, where 

The river, mountains, rocks, and woods, have come 

To do her homage ; and around her throne 

Beauty is gathered in its wildest forms. — 

That stern old ruin crowning the steep hill 
With its proud diadem ; those thrilling cliffs 
Asunder rent and darkly lowering o'er 



40 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The noble river, which so gently sleeps 

In its wild cradle like a fro ward child 

Whom victory has lulled to rest ; the far, 

Far landscape and the glittering village, through 

That gloomy vista shining with their hues 

As bright as ever painter's pencil made, 

Or poet's fancy feigned ; that fair wide sweep 

Of woodland hills and verdant fields, o'er which 

The shadows of the summer clouds would seem 

To be for ever coursing ; the white sail 

On the bright waters ; the thick wooded slope 

Frosted with chestnut flowers ; the wild walk 

O'er-arched with forest trees, and winding on 

Among wild flowers and dark moss-grown rocks ;- 

The gushing murmur of the mountain brook, 

Winding its dark course to the river's bed ; 

The fearful precipice upon whose brink 

We stand, and see far down beneath our feet 

The tops of the tall trees which grow along 

The base. — Above, beneath, around is spread 

Beauty in every shape that wins the eye, 

Or sooths the feelings, or exalts the soul. 

At every hour, — in the bright morning, when 
Light fleecy clouds along the mountain-tops 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 41 

Are floating, and the sun new risen throws 

On river, hills, and plain, the glowing hues 

Of childhood ; or when evening spreads 

Over the scene the gray and sober light 

Of age ; or when night's darkness shrouds it with 

The fearful gloom of death, and all is dim 

And undefined except the lurid train 
Of light which steamboat fires throw across 
The trembling waters, or the startling flash 
Of the sheet lightning, which an instant tips 
The mountains with its dazzling light, and turns 
The river's stream to liquid fire ; or when 
Over the whole the moon has thrown her soft 
Tremulous light, as bright, and beautiful, 
And indistinct, as are our hopes beyond 
The grave. — At every hour, on every side, 
The still unwearied eye is met with new 
And ever varied forms of loveliness. 

Oh ! 1 have gazed upon these glowing scenes, 
And trod these forest paths, and lingered still 
In their wild lonely haunts, until almost 
I've wished myself a woman or a child. 
That I might weep away the pleasant weight 
Of feelings that oppressed me. I have watched 
D2 



42 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The swiftly gliding hours, and sadly felt 
That I should tear myself away ; yet still 
I linger here, as if bound by the chain 
Which keeps the fettered lover at the feet 
Of human beauty. My last hour has come, 
And I must hasten on. But yet full oft 
In future times, when toil, and care, and woe 
Press heavily upon me, I will leave 
My earthly frame to play my weary part 
In the sad farce of life, and borne away 
On fancy's wings I'll seek these shades again, 
And drain another draught of beauty here. 
And gather strength to struggle with my kind, 
And win new life to bear unyielding still 
The sickening tortures of humanity. 



" Once more upon the waters." How the boat 

Trembles through its huge bulk with the dread power 

Of life within, alike the human frame 

When shaken by the overexcited soul. 

Swift dashing now through that wild mountain pass, — 

And now the upraised eye recoils in awe 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 43 

From the dread majesty of those dark cliffs, 
And now it wanders through to rest at ease 
Upon the soft and crowded foliage 
Of the thick-wooded dells which calmly sleep 
Between the rugged heights. Again ! — Again ! — 
And now 'tis past. Yet still we turn to gaze 
Through that dark portal on the lovely spot 
Beyond, with somewhat of the fond regret. 
With which our earliest parents turned to catch 
A glimpse of Eden through its closing gates. 
Fair scenes are still around me. But I've drunk 
Too deeply there of beauty, — I have loved 
The genius of those swift-receding shades 
With far too pure a passion to be now 
Inthralled by other and inferior charms. 



Up the high Catskill mountains' toilsome steeps, 

Wearily, slowly winding. Now along 

The precipice's brink, sending the eye 

Down the deep glen, striving in vain to pierce 

The dense, dark foliage, and catch at least 

A glimpse of white foam from the mountain stream 



44 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Which, brawling on far down below, sends up 
Its cooling, freshening murmur to the ear. 
Now passing on beneath the dark rocks piled 
In beautiful confusion far above, 
Half seen, half hid by clustering foliage. 
Now gazing up in wonder at the fair 
And glittering mountain castle reared on high, 
Amid such wild and savage scenes, as if 
The mountain spirits, and no human hand 
Had placed it there. Up the steep ascent now 
Toilfully straining, and above us wave 
The starry chestnut flowers and the dark 
And massive foliage of the hemlock. Now, 
Pausing to gaze upon the mountain hut,^ 
O'er whose unsightly ruins genius throws 
The light of immortality. And now, 
Watching the various mountain flowers that deck 
Our way. — The fair and clustering laurel bloom, 
The bright wild tulip like a crimson star 
Among the deep green foliage, and the fern 
Waving its graceful plumes o'er the dark rocks. 
And striving now to catch another glimpse 
Of those fair walls in vain, — till the wild scenes 
Around us, and the dreamy influence 
Of summer evening almost make us think 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 45 

That they but mocked us, and have fled away 
Alike the magic castle of Saint John.^ 



On the high mountain top, far, far above 

The world. A wild, wide, boiling sea of mist 

Is spread around, the beautiful phantasm 

Of the true ocean,'° which once swept above 

These glowing lands. Its pale waves roll not now 

With the free dash of life, but slowly rise 

Like phantoms, and with ghostlike motion glide 

Along, to dash all noiselessly against 

The rock-bound shore. And yet 'tis like, so like 

The wide deep sea, that fancy peoples it 

With the strange monsters of the deep, and we 

Can scarce believe that fellow-mortals there 

Beneath the waves are toiling carelessly 

In the dull work of life. Its spectral depths 

Are opening now, and bright and verdant isles 

Are shining through. Again the misty waves 

Close over them, and all is ocean now. 

Again bright fields and dark-green woods shine through 

The rent veil, and its scattered folds are rolled 



46 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Into light fleecy clouds, which float along 
Upon the summer wind. And now these melt 
Before the glowing sun, and naught is left 
But dazzling, beautiful reality. 

The golden hue of harvest, — the dark woods, — 
The bright green pasture lands, — Ihe rivulet 
Alike a white thread thrown all carelessly 
On the green velvet, — the low rustic roof, — 
The distant village glittering with the sun, — 
The river calmly lying there alike 
A polish'd mirror, and the whiter sail 
Gleaming on its bright waters, — those green isles 
Like emeralds set in silver, — and the far, 
Wide landscape spreading on beyond 
In still extending beauty till the eye 
Is pained, the soul dazzled — faint — bewildered. 

How often have I wished that I could soar 
Far, far above the earth, and poised alone 
In mid-air, gaze upon its beauties spread 
Beneath, softened by distance and relieved 
From every harsh and jarring trait. My wish 
Is granted now. But never in my dreams 
Did fancy frame so fair a scene as this. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 47 



Wearied with Nature. — Now to plunge once more 
Into the joyous throng of fellow-men. 
Thy crowded street, fair walls and porticoes. 
And pretty grass-plots, Saratoga ! now 
Are all before me. It is well to blend. 
As they do here, the country's beauty with 
The city's splendour. It is wisely done 
To mingle nature's soft and swelling curves 
With the straight formal lines of art. I like 
To see these gardens, trees, and flowers. 'Tis 
The homage nature wrests from art. I like 
To see that others worship at my shrine. 
But there's a flower like one that blooms upon 
The Catskill mountains ; and it makes me sad 
To see it here drooping and sofled with dust 
From the bright chariot wheels of yonder cit, 
Who looks as if he thought that his own face 
Shone with his coach's splendour. And I like 
This ever new and ever flowing stream 
Of faces, each a study in itself. 
See there the puny politician puflfed 
With news which he has gathered from 



48 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The papers ; labouring with his burden like 

The mountain in the fable, and with such 

Tumultuous energy discharging it 

On each unhappy listener. And here 

The purse-proud city merchant, who has sold 

His body, soul, and almost life itself 

For gold, and seeks to purchase with it now 

Refinement, and a character for taste 

And science : but, alas ! his thoughts are still 

Chained to his counter, and his talk still rings 

Of dollars. There the lordly democrat, 

Brimful of freedom and equality, 

Yet scanning every stranger, and afraid 

To offer him the common courtesies 

Of life, before he learns his name and rank. — 

To all who are above him cringing like 

A European slave ; to all below 

More haughty than a European lord. 

And there the city fopling clothed in grace 

As in a garment, — but I'll waste no verse 

On him. — Oh ! he who has the power to read 

The human soul beneath the flimsy veil 

Which human craft throws o'er it, — he may drain 

A sparkling draught of laughter here. But yet 

Within its dregs the bitterness of scorn 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 49 

Is lurking still. One hour here, and how 
The chain is galling me ! — Heighho ! I wish 
That I were in the woods again. In truth, 
The others seem to wish so too. A cloud 
Hangs on each brow, and I can mark in each 
A quick, unquiet wandering of the eye. 
Which shows a restless wish for something that 
They have not. Can it be, that they, like me, 
Are deep in love with Nature ? Can it be, 
That they have left their hearts in her wild haunts, 
And long to kneel before her shrine again? 
Ah, no ! I see it now — hark to that harsh, 
Loud-clanging bell ! It is the dinner-bell. 
Now see the joy that flashes o'er each face 
And sparkles from each eye. Alas ! alas ! 
'Twas hunger, not the love of Nature which 
Had thrown a cloud upon their brows. 'Tv/as meat 
And drink that they were panting for, and not 
The wild sweet eloquence of Nature. Well ! 
They all are seated round the table now. 
And they seem very happy in the din 
Of rushing waiters, clanging knives and forks, 
And clashing plates. But the poor music, how 
It strives to raise itself above the harsh. 
Discordant din, and seeks in vain to throw 
E 



50 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

The dignity of thought and feeling o'er 

A base and earthly function. Ah ! I see 

They have immortal souls, and there are thmgs 

Which make them think, and times when they can feel 

How lovingly they gloat upon each dish, 

And with what thought and science they can tell, 

How each should be devoured. And in all 

This wild excitement, still how zealously, 

Yet awkwardly they keep the stern command 

Of British tourists, that the fork should be 

A spoon. But the poor soul, how it must toil 

To free itself from all this mass of food 

With which they cumber its immortal powers. 

Heighho ! I wish that I were in the woods 

Again. Must I wait here until they end 

This weary gorging, still beginning, still 

Unceasing ? Well ! thank Heaven the dinner ends. 

And now the man of fashion, emulous 

Of glory, ranges round his dozen kinds 

Of wine, looking with lofty, lordly scorn 

Upon his humble neighbour, who gets drunk 

With only half a dozen. And now those 

Who wish to keep the little intellect 

That eating leaves, are free to wander forth 

Into the air again. I like this proud 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 51 

And vine-wreathed portico. I like to see 

The groups of children coursing through its length 

With faces fresh as flowers, and graceful forms 

Still undisfigured by the hand of art. 

I like to hear the shrill and laughing burst 

Of their sweet voices. 'Tis alike the sound 

Of mountain waters, only not so soft. 

But yet I do not like the solemn way 

In which the grown-up children ride around 

Their little painted hobby horses on 

The little railroad circle. And within, 

The " recreative garden" where they roll 

The nine-pin balls, I do not like the pond 

In which they keep tame fishes to be caught 

By visiters at such a price per hour, 

And then thrown back agam, when they have wrenched 

The barbed hook from their bleeding jaws. Oh how 

I wished that they were in the fishes' place, 

And I myself a customer. But this 

Is for the men. As for the fairer sex. — 

But softly ! — softly ! — They, the morning stars 
Of life ; they, whose bright smiles alone inspire 
The soldier's daring, statesman's eloquence. 
And poet's fancy, — and it may be, too. 



52 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

This careless rambling verse, which leads me now 

Its wild-goose course, oh ! they must not be named 

With aught approaching e'en to ribaldry. 

And there are faces here, bright as e'er formed 

The basis of a poet's dream, and ne'er 

Did bard before the shrine of beauty bow. 

With feelings deeper, holier than mine. 

But yet if there be aught by which the stream 

Of admiration is a moment soiled. 

To name it were a brother's part, and with 

A brother's gentleness it shall be done. 

First, then, I wish that they would never lend 

Their sanction to the foul intemperance 

Of men by e'en a single glass of wine. 

In woman's soul there is, or ought to be, 

Something too pure to be polluted with 

One smgle drop of alcohol. 'Tis true, 

That it may aid the forced vivacity 

Which is the fashion now. 'Tis true, that what 

Is only affectation, may be changed 

By wine to nature. Yet, much as I loathe 

All affectation, it is better still 

Than an approach by e'en a single step 

To maudlin folly. And I wish that they 

Would wear the fashion out, which grafts this forced 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 53 

And foreign manner on their native grace. 

'Tis so unsuited to their nature, which 

Is gentle, grave, contemplative. Now look 

At yonder lovely girl, before whom stands 

That pretty piece of male conceit. Observe 

Her flashing eyes, her eager bending form, 

Her quickly waving hands, and her fair face 

Distorted into archness. Would you know 

What subject moves this graceful energy 

Of gesture ? Do not ask. It is grimace 

Which they are changing there, and not ideas. 

As for the words, — why, they are things of course. 

Yet this is not her nature. Ah ! they are 

Too soft, too facile, and too diffident 

Of their own charms. They are too apt to yield 

To models far inferior to themselves. 

Oh, would they but believe the word of one 

Whose ruling passion ever was the love 

Of beauty, and whose life has been its search, 

Would they believe me when I say that grace 

Lives but with Nature. If they would but leave 

To voice the melody, to form the grace, 

To features the expression Nature gave, 

Oh ! then indeed they would be deities 

Worthy the glorious land o'er which they reign. 
E2 



54 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

But there is one face here, — I see it now, 

From her large bright dark eye there flashes still 

The pure sweet eloquence of woman's thought, 

And over her smooth cheek are passing still 

The ever changing, ever lovely hues 

Of sensibility, and on her lip 

Is still enthroned the soft and gentle smile 

Of female tenderness. But she is now 

Just bursting into womanhood ; and if 

Her face should ever shine upon my way 

Again, it will perhaps be tuined too 

By some base foreign affectation. Now 

See yonder belle. How gracefully, and yet 

How artfully she keeps that crowd of beaux 

Around her ; and with how much skill she plays 

On all, the bright artillery of teeth 

Like pearls, and coral lips, and sparkling eyes. 

And glossy ringlets. Brilliant ! — beautiful ! 

But ah ! that cold and selfish glance she casts 

Around, to gather in and estimate 

The full amount of admiration which 

She has been levying. And see that flash 

Of fierce disdain launched sidelong at the head 

Of some fair rival. Curses ! curses on 

The folly which has made me learn to read 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 55 

The human face, until the slightest thoughts 

Are clear to me, as if we had been made 

As Momus wished. Alas ! I'm like the child 

Who breaks the magic glass which used to lend 

His little show-box all its glories. I 

Can ne'er be fooled again. Yet they are fair, 

How very, very fair. Look at them now, 

As they are promenading through this fine 

Old portico. Observe their glossy hair, 

Their brilliant eyes, their smooth and glowing cheeks, 

Their matchless forms. But — but — that foreign walk ! 

There's something so much like a peacock's gait 

In the odd, stately way in which they swing along, 

Sweeping from side to side their curving trains. — 

But this will never do. For I had sworn 

That through one single month at least, the fiend 

Of sarcasm should be still within me. I 

Had sworn that for one month I'd find or feign 

Things which should raise within me other thoughts 

Than this cold blighting ridicule, which now 

Has stamped its scowl upon my brow, its sneer 

Upon my lip ; and has so nearly bound 

In icy chains the once warm gushing fount 

Of youthful feeling. I will keep my oath. 



56 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

But then I must not linger here. Lake George 

Is wooing me to its sweet solitudes. 

Farewell, the dreary joys and lonely crowds 

Of Saratoga ! 'Tis in vain for me 

To seek to mingle with my kind. My soul 

Is like the mystic harp, which will not give 

Its music forth to aught except the breath 

Of heaven, and is jarred to discord by 

The human hand. Then let me kneel once more 

Repentant at the shrine of Nature. She 

Intrudes not on the weariness which springs 

From man's perversity, and from no fault 

Of hers. With more than woman's gentleness 

She waits until the cloud has passed, and then 

With brighter smiles hastens to charm again. 



Alone ! Alone !— Oh ! not a single sail 
Ruffles the gentle, smooth, yet brilliant face 
Of this pure water. Not a trace of man 
Is on its lonely isles. Its wooded shores 
Are still almost as wild as they were left 
By the wild Indian. How I love to float 
In the light rocking skiff, and gaze far down 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 57 

Through the pure waters on the fairy realm 

Which like another world is spread beneath. 

'Tis beautiful to see its rock-laid floors 

All checkered o'er with ever-waving veins 

Of golden sunshine. It is beautiful 

To see its glittering natives sporting there 

Unconscious of the evil eye that rests 

Upon them. It is beautiful to see 

The cross-barred perch, and silvery speckled trout 

Gracefully rising to the sportsman's bait. 

'Tis beautiful to see them poised in doubt. 

And best of all it is, to see them dash 

From the barbed hook, unharmed away. Oh ! now 

I do not wonder that the Indians held 

The selfsame faith which throws its brilliant grace 

Over the Greek and Roman poesy. 

I do not wonder that they too believed 

In countless gods who dwelt in rivers, lakes. 

And mountains. I have gazed on the bright depths . 

Beneath me, till I almost thought to see 

Some river goddess swiftly flashing through 

The crystal wave, with form of dazzling grace, 

And golden hair, and laughing upturned face. 

Too beautiful for human words. And I 

Have shouted to the mountain spirits, till 



58 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Their deep and solemn answers threw a damp 
Upon my soul, and almost made me rue 
The boyish mood which led me to disturb 
Their slumbers. The poor Indians ! — E'en 
Their savage conquerors, they say, were struck 
By the pure solemn spirit which is spread 
Around this lonely lake. E'en they, though used 
To yield obedience to their savage thirst 
For gold and blood, and not the gentle sway 
Of fancy, — ^^even they did clothe its shores 
In superstition's solemn hues, and named 
The waters sacred," and across the sea 
Conveyed them, to be kept for pious rites. 
If the white savage thus could own the power 
Of these pure holy scenes, what must have been 
Their influence upon the wild, untaught. 
And fancy-governed Indians. With what fair 
Yet awful deities, forgotten now, 
They must have peopled these enchanted waves 
And echoing shores. Of all their bleeding ties 
Which we have torn apart, methinks the love 
That bound them to this lake must still have been 
The strongest. And in truth they tell me that 
A few years since an Indian left his tribe,^^ 
And came to dwell alone on yonder isle. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 59 

Lonely and sad, he sought not with the whites 

Aught of companionship, and asked no boon 

Except to live in scenes endeared to him, 

Perchance by some remembrance of his own, 

Or by a parent's tale, or it might be 

By some tradition of his tribe. His food, 

After the simple custom of his race, 

Was won from the pure waters of the lake, 

Or its wild shores ; for there the deer and bear. 

And e'en the panther lingers still, and still 

The eagle soars around its rugged cliffs. 

Alone he glided o'er the peopled wave. 

Or trod alone the forest wild, — save when 

Some savage friend from the far West had come, 

Wearing his nation's garb, sullen and stern, 

Watching the Whites with eyes that seemed to gleam 

With the fierce fire of vengeance long delayed. 

But in the breast of him who thus had made 

His home among his people's foes, no thought 

Like this appeared to linger. With the sad 

And silent scorn, which speaks a soul subdued 

Yet feeling still, he bore the taunts and jeers, 

Which the cold, sneering white man ever heaps 

Upon the lone and friendless. But still aught 

Of kindness, e'en the slight friendly words 



60 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 

Spoken perchance in whim and wantonness 
By fashion's votaries, whom chance had led 
To the lone Indian's hut,— oh ! even these 
Waked the wild feeling of the savage soul. 
And when those selfsame loiterers had sought 
These shores in after years, they wondered oft 
To find their names remembered, and themselves 
Addressed in tones of gratitude by one 
Whom they had long forgotten. Firm and deep 
The love of nature must have taken root 
In that lone savage, if he thus could leave 
His nation, friends, and kindred, and endure 
The white man's contumely, and the stings 
Of poverty, within the lands which teem 
With luxury and wealth, to all except 
Their rightful lords, — strongly and closely must 
Its ties have twined themselves around his heart, 
If he could calmly bear all this, and find 
His recompense in nature's face alone. 
He is dead now. And naught is left to mar 
The white man's pleasure in these graceful wilds, 
By calling up the saddened memory 
Of the much-injured race from whom they were 
So foully torn. That wild and simple race ! 
They seemed suited by nature to these scenes. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 61 

The Indian bark and Indian warrior, 

And his pure, gentle Indian^bride, the prize 

Of glory won in battle or the chase, 

Sharing her husband's labours and his sports 

In the pure air of heaven, mingling with his 

Her very life, in all the boundless love 

Of woman's soul, when undefiled by art ; — 

Methinks that Indian bark and Indian pair 

Were better suited to these gentle wilds, 

Than yonder passing l^pat and gaudy crew 

Of fashion's loiterers, wounding the eye 

With their odd, grotesque forms and glaring garb. 

Jarring the ear with their shrill chattering 

And harsh laughter, glad in their brief escape 

From the close, stifling walls where white men make 

Their crowded dwelling-place, and where each vice 

Thrives in the foul congenial atmosphere, 

And sickening virtue droops, and beauty fades. 

Well, they have passed, and now I am once more 
Alone with nature. How the placid sheet 
Of water gleams beneath the glowing sun ! 
Now the light breeze shivers its glassy face 
In countless fragments all bright glittering, 
As if the selfsame gems which deck its isles 
F 



62 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Were scattered o'er its waves. And now the wind 

Raises the mimic billows higher still, 

Yet heaving all softly and gracefully, 

As if they might be moved to sport, but ne'er 

To wrath. But what is this that breasts the waves, 

And seems to steer its course towards my skiff? 

A wild wood squirrel ^^ voyaging alone 

O'er the wide waters ! He has reached my oar 

And clings upon its blade, and now he climbs, 

All dripping to the boat. Poor little thing ! 

You must be tired indeed to trust yourself 

To human beings ; or in these lone shades 

Perchance thou hast not yet been taught that foe 

And stranger mean the same. And now he peers 

Over the vessel's side, and seems to think. 

Of launching on the weary wave again. 

And now inquiringly he turns on me 

His large dark eye. Safe ! safe ! my little friend. 

It is not here that I could bring myself 

To harm thee. Now he courses on along 

The vessel's edge, and finds a sheltered place 

Beneath the bench ; and there he panting sits, 

Weary and worn, and looks as if he felt 

The dignity of being rowed at ease. 

Now we have neared the shore, and see ! upreared, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



63 



He's peering o'er the vessel's side again. 

And now — splash ! he is gone ; with upraised head 

And outstretched tail, right gallantly he stems 

The surge. And now he gains the shore, and climbs 

All dripping o'er the naked rocks, nor turns 

To throw me e'en a single look of thanks. 

Oh, in these wilds I am a boy again : 

And pleasant tears are swelling in my eyes 

I know not why, and I can laugh once more ; 

Not the sad laugh of scorn, but the free burst 

Of childhood's joy. How like a dream appears 

The vice, the rage, the tumult, and the strife 

Of the mad world which I have left behind. 

And yet how often has the wrath of man 

Pierced to these shades, and warred here, even here, 

In scenes whose sweet and solemn eloquence 

Might sooth to peace aught else but human rage. 

How oft has human blood steeped these lone shores, 

And even lent its foul, revolting tinge 

To this pure wave ! Not in those border wars 

Alone, whose robber carnage history 

Records not, as too dark and foul for e'en 

Her blood-stained page, but in the prouder strife 

Which white men waged with white men o'er their prey* 



64 A MONTH OF FREEDOM^ 

Enriching with iheir mingling gore the soil, 

Which each essayed to wrest from its true lords* 

How often have these mountains echoed back 

The spirit-stirring shouts of struggling foes, 

Or the heart-chilling shrieks of children, wives, 

And warriors, slain in cold butchery, 

When the fierce joy of mortal strife had passed, 

And left the bitterness of sad despair. 

And in those wars what deep revenge was wreaked 

By the fierce savage on the race that first 

Assailed his home. He should have waited while 

The rival nations fought above the spoil. 

Until, like Esop's beasts of prey, they sank 

Exhausted, and he might have wrested then 

His birthright from the feeble grasp of both. 

But he was far too thoughtless and too quick 

To feel the charms of vengeance. Still his blood 

Mixed with the stream poured out by those, who fought 

To win the right to drive him from his home. 

While he was visiting in wrath his wrongs 

Upon one race of white men, he knew not 

That he was strengthening another tribe 

As false and ruthless. And e'en if his wild 

And rude sagacity had taught him this, 

Still was the draught of vengeance far too deai 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 65 

To be foregone. Like the crushed wasp, perchance 

He found in driving home his dying sting 

The only solace that was left him now, 

For his destruction. But the storm of war 

Long since has rolled away, and left behind 

No trace except those aged fortresses, 

Around whose mouldering walls the tourist pries 

In search for rehcs. O'er the silent lake 

Is spread tranquillity as deep and calm, 

As when the simple savage held its shores 

In peace and joy, and dreamed not that he had 

In unknown lands, white brothers who would leave 

Their homes, and over the Great Water come 

To wrest away the fair inheritance 

Their common father had bestowed on him. 

Beauty and solitude ! Dearest to me 
Of Nature's handmaids, and still worshipped most \ 
How absolute they reign united here ! 
When the vexed soul is lashed to rage, or stung 
To torture in the strife of human things, 
How sweet to linger here till joy succeeds 
To pain, and placid calmness follows joy ! 
That gentle calm which steeps the soul of him, 
Who rests in Nature's arms ! Would it could be 
F 2 



66 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Eternal ! With what gladness would I change 

For its sweet peace, aught that the world can give 

Of joy or glory ! But it will not stay. 

Even when courted most, how soon it yields 

To listlessness and dull satiety ! 

And then there comes the restless thirst for change, 

The feverish yearning for excitement's thrill, 

And the impatient wish to find it e'en 

In strife, rather than still to linger on 

In sad inaction. Mark the waters now'* 

Of this lone lake ! Although their peaceful way 

Is over glittering sands, and pavements seamed 

With golden sunshine, — though they roam at will 

Around these verdant isles, or gently sleep 

Cradled within these high and graceful shores, 

Which shield them from the tempest's wrath, — yet see ! 

When they at last escape from all this calm 

And sheltered loveliness, see how they bound, 

Dancing away in joy, reckless of aught 

That may await them in the stormy world 

Of waters, which they hasten on to join, 

Happy, too happy, to have left behind 

The sameness of these peaceful shades. And thus, 

E'en thus it is with me ! I've lingered here 

Till e'en these wilds have lost the power to charm, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. i)T 

And their deep quiet only serves to raise 

Within my breast a fiercer restlessness. 

I have exhausted every peaceful charm 

Of Nature, — let me see her now in vi^rath. 

My scut is cloyed with gentle loveliness, 

And sick with placid beauty : — give me strife, — 

Give me grandeur, — give me sublimity ! 



Far down within the dark and rock-walled glen 
Where roar the Trenton Falls. '^ How fearfully 
That wild and turbid mountain stream winds through 
Its rugged depths ! Now down the rocky pass 
Raging in foam, or o'er the steep dark cliff 
In thunder hurled ; then pausing at the base 
An instant in the calm and silent mood 
Which ever follows human rage ; and then 
Sweeping along in sullen peaceful scorn, 
Again to plunge, again to pause, again 
To sweep away on its tumultuous course. 

Oh there is beauty, wild, wild beauty here ! 
See there the parted waters gently stream 
In waving ringlets o'er the rock's dark brow. 



68 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Here the united flood hurls o'er the clifl^ 

Its amber wave, again to rise in white 

And wintry wreaths, — sending far through the air 

Its gUttering spray, alike the drifted snow 

Upon the winter's wind. And see ! beside 

That raging flood, a parted rivulet 

Gently and tremblingly is climbing down 

The rugged face of the black rock, alike 

A timid cowering wife hastening to join 

And sooth the angry feelings of some fierce 

And haughty lord. Beautiful ! Beautiful ! 

But — but — curses upon that little mill 

And grog-shop ! What ! could they not bear to be 

Alone with nature for one single hour ? 

Can we ne'er lay aside our earthly part, 

But must its base and sordid wants still mix 

With every thought and feeling of the soul 1 

This cursed guide-book, too, which mingles still 

Its proud bombastic burlesque with the deep 

And simple eloquence of rocks and floods, 

And almost forces me to break again 

My oath of gravity. And yet — e'en yet, 

'Tis beautiful. And sometimes, too, sublime— ^ 

Ay, thrillingly sublime ; the more, perhaps. 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 69 

From the dread thought that death is at our side, 
Fastening on us his cold sepulchral gaze. 
When clinging to the narrow ledge of rock, 
Fancy can almost frame in the dark flood 
His fleshless face, and hollow glaring eye, 
And naked jaws distended with their wild 
And ghastly grin. And those tremendous cliffs ! 
How gloomily they rise above us now, 
And darkly frown upon our path. And here 
Each rock beneath our feet teems with remains, 
Which bear the fancy back to times that have 
No other earthly record. Ah ! but see 
That busy, bustling man of science there. 
With hammer, chisel, and gold spectacles. 
He turns his back upon the living charms 
Of nature, and alike the earth-worm strives 
To mine his way into her mouldering corpse. 
Thank Heaven ! I am no geologist. 
Yet I love Nature still. Too well, indeed. 
To take much pleasure in dissecting her. 

Yes, there is beauty, much of beauty here, 
And something too of grandeur. But who stops 
To watch the torrent's rage, when near at hand 
Foams the proud ocean cataract ? 



70 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Who heeds the torrent's roar, when on his ear 
An ocean's thunder is about to burst ? 
Then forward, forward still ! — Niagara ! 



Over Ontario's broad and sea-like breast, 
Swift hurrying onward to that mighty shrine^ 
Single, unrivalled, in her proudest hours, 
By Nature framed to stand alone on earth, 
As worthy of her fair divinity. 
How often have I longed to worship there ! 
Amid the travellers' legends, how the name 
Of that proud cataract has ever caught 
My careless ear, even from infancy ! 
How oft have I my fancy tasked to frame 
Some image of its fearful loveliness ! 
Whene'er with other and inferior charms 
Nature around me threw her spells, how still 
I sighed to see her there, — there, where alone 
She wears her brightest robes of majesty ! 
And that malign and gloomy influence, — 
That evil genius which has ever marked 
My hopes for disappointment, and through life 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 7i 

■3till from my lips has dashed the cup of joy, 

She slumbers now. Beneath a sultry sky, 

And through the hushed and passive air we hold 

Our prosperous course ; and the broad waters all 

Gently and slowly are heaving, alike 

Some forest monster stretched asleep beneath 

The burning sun. Soon shall we reach the point, 

Where first the eye can catch the snow-white cloud, 

Which canopies the mighty cataract 

For ever, and soon on the ear shall burst 

Its thunder. Forward ! forward ! — Ah ! but see 

That sullen cloud which slowly rises now 

Across our way, glooming alike the wall 

Of fearful darkness, which in days of old 

Barred Arasmanes from his Aden !'^ See ! 

Higher and higher boil its sulphury wreaths 

Of vapour," and the gathering masses now 

On either hand sweep slowly on to join 

Its strength, solemn, majestic, stern, alike 

The mustering bands of earthly armaments. 

Black, black the fearful gloom of all beneath, 

Dark as the soul of Byron, — save when seamed 

By the quick lightning's thrilling, dazzling streak, 

Darting alike the pang of painful thought. 

Which shoots so oft across the gloomy brow 



72 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Of genius. But above the blackness rests 
A soft and glittering wreath of fleecy snow. 
Which overhangs the sullen cloud beneath, 
Like the feathery foam on an ocean wave, 
Or white plumes floating o'er the dark array 
Of mail-clad warriors. As yet it seems 
As if all Nature watched in stillness, hushed 
To silence by the selfsame awe, which chills 
The human gazer : but the freshening breeze 
Tells that the frightened air is flying now 
Before the storm, and now the rising waves 
Are flying too. Yet each wave seems to chase 
The one before, and turning still to watch 
The coming cloud, as if they fled in sport 
As well as fear. O'er the broad waters now 
The cloud has thrown its gloomy shade, and now 
The rising wind is sweeping fiercely by. 
And now the frightened waves, crested with foam, 
Are rushing wildly on, and their light spray 
Around me falls, mixed with the first broad drops 
From the dark thunder-cloud. And one by one 
The human beings, who had crowded here 
To watch the coming storm, have shrunk away ; 
And I am left alone, — alone with him, 
Whose voice is on the waters, and who flies 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 73 

Upon the pinions of the wind, and makes 
The clouds his chariot. And thus, e'en thus, 
It should be. 'Tis not now, that earthly things 
Should wrest from me my thoughts, now when they 

seek 
To raise themselves on high, as if they felt 
His very presence, whose pavilion is 
Dark waters and thick clouds. What is this wild 
Sublimity of feeling and of thought 
Which thrills each nerve of my excited frame ? — 
What is this high and daring recklessness, 
Which makes my bosom proudly swell to front 
The flashing lightning, and my spirit leap 
With joy responsive to the thunder's note ? — 
What is it but communion with the dread 
And all-pervading soul, the mighty power 
Which, though for ever present, now has bowed 
The heavens, and above, beneath, around, 
Speaks to each thrilled and overpowered sense, 
In his eternal strength and majesty ? 

In darker gloom, and fiercer wrath, and yet 
In wilder beauty raves th' increasing storm. 
Quicker and quicker the bright lightning gleams. 
Louder and louder swells the angry roar 
G 



74 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Of mingling winds and waters. Far above, 
The rattling, crashing, echoing thunder rolls 
Through the rent heavens like the master voice, 
Which sways the elemental war below. 
Higher and higher dash the surging waves. 
Their beautiful array is broken now, 
And tumbling, foaming, bursting, boiling on, 
They rush against our trembling bark, which still, 
Though wavering, onward holds its plunging course, 
Still like the fabled storm-ship" dashing on, 
Full against wind and wave. And now the clouds, 
And winds, and floods close in their fiercest strife, 
And now the tossing foam, and driving spray, 
And dashing rain shroud from the sight all else, 
Except the lightning's dazzling, blinding flash, 
And drown in their wild uproar all of sound. 
Save the loud thunder's still increasing voice. 

Nature ! Adored Nature ! Long have I bowed 
A soul-wrapped worshipper before the might 
Of thy still new and varying loveliness ! , , 

I have smiled with thee in thy joyous spring, 
And with a lover's rapture watched thy charms 
Ripening in summer's warm voluptuous glow, 
And mused with thee in autumn's pensive gloom, 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 75 

And mourned with thee in winter's loneliness. 

I have adored thee in each peaceful mood, 

For thou art fair in all. But in thy wrath, 

How passing lovely ! How I envy now 

That storm-bird of the sea,'^ which, midway perched 

On some high cliff, in sadness droops when all 

Is calm and tranquil, mournfully watching 

The sullen dash of the sluggish billows, 

Silent, and dark, and lonely as a bard, 

When his brief hour of inspiration's past. 

Yet when the signals of the coming storm, — 

The lightning's flash and volleying thunder break 

Its musings, then that tempest-loving bird, 

Roused it may be by the same thrilling sense 

Of joy which even now within me swells, 

Launches itself upon the sweeping blast, 

Cleaves in wild joy its way through the white peak 

Of some foam-crested wave, or darts far down 

Into the deep abyss of parted floods, 

Again to rise, again to sweep away, 

Riding upon the pinions of the wind, 

And revelling through rack, and spray, and foam, 

Proudly exulting in the buoyant strength, 

Which braves in sport the tempest's wildest wrath. 



76 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



The thunder-storm has passed. Far on towards 

Its ocean home the dark cloud holds its course, 

And through its bosom now less dazzling plays 

The quivering lightning, and upon the ear 

The muttering thunder's last faint echo dies. 

O'er the wide deck again the varied groups 

Of human faces spread in joy around, 

And the affrighted winds are hushed to peace. 

And the subsiding waves as softly heave 

As the white bosom of yon blue-eyed girl, 

O'er whose fair face there lingers still the light 

Of that romance, which like a halo crowns 

The hours of youth and beauty, — that sweet glow 

Of mingled thought and feeling, beautiful 

As the pure golden light, which spreads e'en now 

Over the face of Nature. For the sun 

Bursts through the scattered clouds, and gilds with joy 

The smiling waves, and paints as if in sport 

A mimic rainbow on each cloud of spray. 

Dashed from the wheels of this our ocean car. 

On ! on ! — Niagara ! Niagara ! 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 77 

From many a wide-spread inland sea, 

And swollen by many a lonely mountain stream, 

The ocean flood of the wild forest comes. 

Compressed, restrained, within those narrow walls 

It bounds along, tossing in air its crests 

Of billowy foam ; like some wild beast of prey, 

Lashing himself to rage, throwing on high 

His waving mane before the final plunge. 

The wide land dazzling amphitheatre 
Of falling waters ! There the ocean stream 
Hurls down in thrilling grandeur its bright flood 
Of living emerald ; brilliant, lovely, 
In its pure sky-like hue, and flecked with bursts 
Of snow-white foam, all gently gliding down, 
Like fleecy clouds upon the summer heaven. 
And here it spreads one broad and dazzling sheet 
Of liquid alabaster. There again 
It throws far down an endless shower of pearls 
Bright glittering in the sun. Beauty ! wild, bright, 
And glorious beauty ! Yet it brings no smile. 
And gives no calm and placid joy. We gaze 
With awe alone, deep, voiceless, breathless awe. 
Its wide immensity ! Its thrilling depth ! 
Its heavenly radiance ! Its eternal might ! 
G 2 



78 A MONTH OF FREEDOMr 

Oh, 'tis not earthly beauty ! See ! it woos 

The rainbow down from its high place in heaven. 

There its soft, mellow teints are thrown athwart 

The dazzling brilliancy of that proud wall 

Of flashing waters. There again it bends 

Gently and smilingly o'er the dread gulf, 

Which boils and foams below. And now it clasps 

In its embrace the whole bright scene at once, 

As if it sought to claim as heaven's own, 

What is too fair for earth. And that deep flood I 

How gracefully it sweeps over the ledge, 

In the proud consciousness of boundless power, 

Gentle, majestic, alike omnipotence. 

How calm and beautiful when unopposed. — 

But at the base, where its dread strength is hurled 
Far down in wrath upon conflicting floods, 
How the earth shudders ! And the iron rocks, 
How they too tremble ! And how the rent air 
Is whirled abroad in storms, with driving spray, 
Which soars away on high, to hide itself 
Among the clouds ! That wild, tremendous roar I 
What dreadful thoughts it raises of the fierce 
Eternal strife which they are waging there, 
Veiled as in mercy from the human eye 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 79 

By that white shroud of spray, still upward thrown 
In sulphury wreaths ! What fearful, thrilling shouts, 
What wild unearthly cries the fancy frames 
From that tumultuous, endless burst of sound ! 

Oh God ! oh God !— The dread sublimity of hell, 
Spread out beneath the dazzling hues of heaven ! 

In vain — in vain ! Alas ! and what are words. 

That they should fondly hope to picture forth, 

What makes the eye recoil, the cheek to blanch, 

And the pale lip to quiver with the force 

Of undefined emotions ? Thy proud form, 

Niagara ! which robes itself with light 

As with a garment, — thy resplendent brow. 

Crowned with the rainbow's halo, — thy dread strengtii. 

Unwearied and unbounded, — thy free course. 

Resistless and eternal, — thy loud voice, 

Which ever shakes the heavens and the earth, — 

Thy radiant beauty, and thy fearful wrath, — 

Oh ! they are stamped for ever on my soul. 

Thy memory is garnered in the hoard 

Of sacred thoughts and feelings which are not 

For man's companionship. When the sad toil 

Of human life has girdled me around 



80 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

With grovelling thoughts, and base and loathsome things, 

And sordid feelings, till my weary soul 

Is sick for beauty, I will think of thee. 

When the dark shapes of vice and woe, which crowd 

The haunts of men, have almost made me doubt 

The being of a God, I'll think of thee. 

When 1 would seek to tear my soul away 

From every chain which binds it to the earth, 

And soar on high among the loftiest realms 

Of thought and fantasy, I'll think of thee. 

But never more will I with human words 

Profane thy glorious immortality. 



My pilgrimage is ended now. My brief 

And swiftly passing Month of Freedom all 

Is spent. Farewell the light and bounding course 

Of the unfettered hours, and the wild joy 

Of the free range o'er land and flood ! Farewell 

The buoyant air of the high mountain-top, 

And the wild majesty of its lone rocks 

And woods ! Farewell the smiling, tranquil joy, 

And sheltered beauty of the cultured vale ! 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 



81 



Farewell the graceful river's winding course, 

Bordered with beauty, and the thrilling voice 

Of the bright cataract, and the wide-spread 

And heaving bosom of the gentle lake ! 

Farewell the wide, wide ocean's fearful might, 

Now in unfettered grace and boundless strength 

Tossing its waves on high, now calmly spread 

At rest, dimpled by billows coursing on 

Like bright smiles passing o'er the sleeping face 

Of beauty ! And dearest of all to me. 

Farewell the deep lone forest where the hand 

Of Art has swept no charm from the wild face 

Of Nature ! — The tall trees rearing on high 

Their parent stems, far, far above the dense 

And pale green underwood, the graceful fern. 

The sparse wild flowers, the prostrate mouldering 

trunks. 
The moss-grown rocks, and the reclining stems, 
Uprooted by the war of elements, 
And caught like falling warriors leaning on 
Their comrades' arms, and the gigantic coils 
Of the wild grape-vine twining round the whole, 
And binding in its huge and snake-like folds 
The living with the dead, — farewell ! farewell ! 



82 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

But thou, my little book, — thou who hast been 

The partner of ray happy wanderings, 

And with thy lone and sweet companionship 

Hast cheered each vacant hour, and chased away 

Each thought of gloom, thou shalt at least go forth 

In freedom to the world from which I now 

Must tear myself away. And thou shalt dare 

The critic's lash, and the cold worldhng's sneer, 

And the light jeers of fashion's thoughtless crowd, 

Which ever worships where its leaders bid, 

And ever throngs in mockery around 

The strange and friendless. Yes, thou shalt depart 

Unaided and alone to brave the world. 

No friend shall usher thee in kindness through 

Its portals, and no patron's name shall stamp 

Thy page, to win for thee the ready smile 

Of all his servile train of worshippers. 

'Tis not for such as me that friendship spreads 

Its mirage, and I am not of a race 

Or nation to entreat the patronage 

Of a created being. Thou shalt go 

Alone — but, yet — my country ! 'tis to thee 

That I devote it. Not with the cold smile 

Which gilds the hate of what the world calls friends, 

Not with the venal spirit, which was wont 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 83 

In olden times to sway the intercourse 

Of patrons and of bards, — but with a child's 

Pure holy feeling, I would tender thee 

This simple tribute from the hand of one 

Among thine humblest sons : rude it may be, 

And valueless save in the filial love. 

Which prompts the offering. Would that its page 

Were worthier of thine eye. Would that its wild. 

And all unpolished numbers might express 

The patriot love,_ which glows within my breast, 

And which alone with the parental tie 

Survives the wreck of childhood's boundless love. 

And even forms a home and rallying point 

For crushed and baffled feelings, driven back 

From the vain search for other sympathies. 

Then with the love that dies not, hail to thee, 

My native land ! And if thy sturdy sons 

Of commerce coldly look on one, who leaves 

The beaten track of wealth to wander o'er 

The wilds of fancy, I can well forgive 

Their scorn, and own perchance their censure just ; 

And I can find me other ties to bind 

Me to thee. Still to me thy face of wild 

And matchless beauty wears a mother's smile, 

And still thy skies beam on me with the bright 



84 A MONTH OF FREEDOM. 

Yet chastened lustre of a mother's eye, 
And still the music of thy winds, and woods, 
And floods wakes in my soul the secret founts 
Of feeling, which arise not now to aught 
Except the magic of a mother's voice. 
My more than mother I — For the fleshly tie 
Is clogged with fond regrets, and chilling fears, 
And every glance of filial love brings home 
Tidings of grief, and sickness, and decay, 
Which overshade the soul with gloomy thoughts 
Of death, and sad surviving loneliness. 
But thou, my country ! not a shade of gloom. 
No dark forebodings and no thoughts of woe 
O'ercloud the joyous love, with which I gaze 
Upon thy youthful strength and loveliness. 
Thou shalt live on exulting in thy might. 
Growing in majesty and beauty, long. 
Long after life's brief warfare, — this wild strife 
Between my earthly and unearthly part, — 
Shall have consigned them both to rest alike 
In dark oblivion. Oh ! it has been 
My earliest dream of childhood, and the hope 
A.nd all absorbing end of after years, 
To link my name with thy proud destinies. 
Yet if a blighted manhood mar the hopes 



A MONTH OF FREEDOM. ^5 

Of my too sanguine youth, — if tis in vain 
That I may seek to earn a lasting place 
In thy remembrance, let me hope to win 
At least one fond indulgent parent's glance, 
One passuig smile, and I will ask no more. 



NOTES 



Note 1.— Page 12. 

Of Irak's dove. 

The carrier pigeon is said to have been brought originally from 
Bassorah, in Irak Arabi. 

Note 2.— Page 12. 

Mother of Waters. 

The word Chesapeake is said to have signified, in the Pow- 
hatan language, " Mother of Waters." 

Note 3.— Page 18. 

" Ocean-like water."" 

See Smith's Hist, of Va. The voyage here alluded to was un- 
dertaken by Capt. Smith, in 1608, for the purpose of exploring the 
Chesapeake and its tributaries. It is, perhaps, one of the most 
remarkable expeditions recorded in history, if we consider the im- 
portance of its objects, and its complete success, in contrast with 
the slender means with which it was performed. — See Bancroft's 
Hist. U. S. ; Robertson's Hist. Amer. ; Marshall's Life of Wash- 
ington, &c., &c. 



88 



NOTES. 



Note 4.— Page 27. 
Twin and rival villages. 
Bristol and Burlington. 

Note S.—Page 29. 
For the Spectre Ship, alias the Storm Ship, alias the Flying 
Dutchman, see Irving's Bracebridge Hall, and Moore's lines on 
passing Dead-Man's Isle. 

Note 6.— Page 30. 
The unnumbered smiles that dimpling play — 
Hovrtwv T£ Kvnaruv 
avripiBfiov yt\a(T\ia. — uEsCHYL. 

Allusions to this same image may be discovered in subsequent 
passages. 

Note 7.~Page 32. 

The purple light 
Of language. 

Lumenque juventse 
Purpureura afflarat — 



VlRG. 



Note 8.— Page 44. 
The mountain hut. 
Rip Van Winkle's hut. 

Note 9.— Page 45. 
Alike the magic castle of St. John, 
See the Bridal of Triermain by Scott. 



NOTES. 89 

Note 10.— Page 45. 

The beautiful "phantasm, 
Of the true ocean. 

Remains of sea-shells are found imbedded in the rocks through- 
out the Catskill Mountains. 

Note 11.— Page 58. 

And, named 

The waters sacred. 

The French are said to have carried the waters of Lake George 
to France, to be used for baptism, and to have named it Lac du 
SacremeJit, or something similar. 

Note 12.— Page 58. 

An Indian left his tribe. 

I tell the simple story of this Indian exactly as it was told to me 
by the boatmen upon the lake. There is no doubt of its truth, I 
believe, whatever there may be with regard to its being worth 
repeating. 

Note 13.— Page 62. 

A wild wood squirrel. 

My adventure with the squirrel is one of frequent occurrence 
upon Lake George. The brown squirrel, which is most common 
here, is remarkable for the largeness and brilliancy of its eye. 



90 NOTES. 

Note 14.— Page ()6. 
Mark the xcafers now 
Of this lone lake ! 

The fall between Lake George and Lake Champlain is consid- 
erable, and the rapids highly picturesque. 

Note 15.— Page 67. 

The Trenton Falls. 

I am told that the appearance of the falls changes with the 

state of the water. I did my best to describe them exactly as 

they were when I saw them. If they should not remain so, it is 

not my fault. 

Note 16.— Page 71. 

Barred Arasmanes from his Aden. 

See the tale of Arasmanes, or the Seeker, by the author of 
Pelham. 

Note 17.— Page 74. 
Still like the fabled storm-ship. 
See note 5, page 88. 

Note 18.— Page 75. 
That storm-bird of the sea. 
The stormy Peterel. 



THE END. 



